Just His Luck
by Tainted Rhapsody
Summary: Naturally, Desmond materialized in the world of his ancestors' memories. Separate from them. And not only that, they both happened to like guys, too. Because that was not contradictory at all, and made loads of sense. AltairxDesmondxEzio Threesome Yaoi
1. Chapter 1: What The Fuck

**Hi! ^-^**

**I'm not sure if Bleach fans also like Assassin's Creed, but then again, I like so many different, random things that it's not even funny, so who knows? **

**...Then again, I'm not sure if I _want_ any Bleach fans here... *chuckles nervously***

**Well, if any of you are reading... sorry? Haha...? Yeah, I didn't actually _plan_ to go on hiatus for half a year, but...**

**Yeah. :/**

**Well, if it makes you feel better (and _not_ want to choke me), I'll have something updated by tomorrow (or maybe the day after... or after that... o_0 But I promise that's the latest!). **

**And no more god-damn new ideas! Promise! But... I just... AC... just started playing... and *NYAH!* **

**...I had to write... *pouts***

_What. The. Fuck._

To say that Desmond was shocked would be an understatement.

After all, he had yet to pick his jaw up from its current location on the floor.

_I… That… It… Wha-… _

Yup, it was official. Desmond Miles, budding Assassin, had finally snapped.

How else could he explain the fact that he was currently perched on top of a building, smack-bang in the middle of _fucking_ _Jerusalem_?

He was most definitely _not _in the Animus right now. The fact that he could actually _feel_ the breeze blowing at his grey hoodie was proof enough of that.

"If this is your idea of a joke, you guys, it's in really, really, really bad taste," he muttered nervously, glancing up at the sky.

Maybe Lucy's head would just pop right in, exclaiming that he actually was in the Animus, and Rebecca had just implemented a more realistic program, and he actually _hadn't_ gone insane.

And obviously, the program involved him actually materialising in the world. Separately from Altair.

Because that made _loads _of sense.

He really hoped that this was just a bad dream.

"Hey! You!"

Desmond's head snapped to the side, towards the exclamation.

An armoured archer stood there, hand raising his bow as he began to settle into a position the assassin knew all too well.

"Get down from there!"

Yup. That was it. Classic.

Now, usually, when he was Altair, he would just run up and shank the guy.

But he wasn't Altair, master assassin, armed to the teeth with weaponry and with enough skill to make most athletes look clumsy.

No, he was Desmond Miles, the slightly-out-of-shape-due-to-lazing-in-the-Animus-too-long assassin-in-training, whose only possible weapon/protection would have to be his i-pod (providing he throw it, really, really hard), and a thin cotton layer of clothing between him and a very, very, painful arrow.

So, in cases like this, it would usually be wise to _run for your fucking life_.

And run he did.

~( ^_^ )~

Altair rather liked Jerusalem. It was a peaceful place.

Well, apart from the guards baying for his blood. But that happened in every city he visited, so it didn't count.

Although he could do without a certain bureau leader glaring daggers at his back…

The white-robed assassin tossed the roll of bread in his hand up habitually, catching it dexterously as he tightened the red sash around his waist.

Yeah, it would be wise to leave the place before those proverbial knives became _real_ knives…

"If you have nothing left to do, I suggest you take your leave…," Malik hissed, lips turned downwards in a frown (well, a deeper frown than earlier). "…_novice_."

Altair resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Turning, the assassin opened his mouth, ready to return some snarky remark…

"_Where did he go?"_

It was a faint exclamation, obviously from a fair bit away, but both men heard it anyway, their senses honed from years of training.

Another sound could be heard under the rabble of numerous shouting voices – one of approaching feet.

Tensing, Altair reached for his dagger, his breakfast lying, forgotten, on the floor as he automatically settled into a combat position.

_Who…?_

The bureau leader stepped forward. "We should close up the entrance…"

The assassin's arm shot to the side, blocking the other male.

"What are you…?" Malik's eyebrows knotted, lip curling as Altair shook his head. "_You know the rules_."

The assassin continued to stare silently at the entrance, eyes narrowed.

"We _cannot_ compromise the brotherhood!" the bureau leader growled. "Even for a Brother –!"

"Quiet," Altair ordered, lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

_Did he just–?_

A vein throbbed on Malik's forehead.

Sadly, before the enraged ex-assassin could snap and choke the other _(stubborn, pig-headed, disrespectful, __arrogant__…)_ male to death (or worse), the shuffling of footsteps caused him to freeze.

Glaring heatedly at the other, he huffed, reaching into the folds of his robe and bringing his trusty dagger out to the front.

_If this went wrong… he was going to __castrate__ Altair._

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond was perfectly fine – after all, they were only normal soldiers, and therefore no match against his assassin traini– Oh, who was he kidding?

He was absolutely dying out there.

An arrow _'thunked'_ into the wall as he turned a sharp corner, missing his shoulder by centimetres.

Well, maybe not _dying_, but at this rate, he was going to be.

"_Stop! Infidel!"_

It wasn't even funny how many men were after his ass right now. In fact, he had an entire _barrack_ of soldiers after him. No, literally – it turned out that sprinting into a mess hall during lunch-time was a _very_ bad idea.

So now there were –Twenty? Thirty?– Armed, hungry, _angry_ militia waving swords at him and screaming in Arabic.

Fun.

If he had been in the Animus, the amount of moving red bleeps that would have shown up on the screen…

Yeah… he was screwed.

Leaping across wooden beams, Desmond dashed across the roof of the building, sneakers squeaking as he gripped the edge of the adjoining double story, hauling himself up the wall.

His breath was becoming laboured; he had been running for a fair bit already, and, unlike Altair or Ezio, he simply did not have the skill, or the speed, to lose his pursuers.

"Fuck," he puffed.

_What was he supposed to __do__?_

Gritting his teeth, the assassin-in-training forced himself to move faster, arms making sweeping motions through the air as he moved. Swerving to the right, he leapt for the wall of the building parallel, hoping to _god_ that his grip wouldn't slip.

Thankfully, the blood of his ancestors running through his veins kept him from plummeting five metres to the probably extremely painful ground.

_Or_ he was just lucky.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Desmond pushed himself up onto the rooftop, not even bothering to look back at his pursuers, who were currently cussing him out.

Hey, it wasn't his fault that they weren't 'assassin' enough to make the jump.

But he knew he couldn't dawdle. They would always find a way around; the jean-clad male knew that from experience.

Stubborn bastards.

Sprinting across the rooftops, he let his eyes scope the area, searching for possible hiding spots.

_Rooftop hutch… rooftop hutch… _

Desmond cursed under his breath. The closest one was at least six roof-tops away, and another story up to boot.

"_Where did he go?"_

Fuck. He had even less time than anticipated.

Leaping quickly across the wooden beams criss-crossing the one story buildings, the male made a mad dash.

"_There!"_

Shit. There was no way he was going to make it now.

~( ^_^ )~

Altair wasn't sure why he had stopped Malik.

It wasn't like he was a very sentimental sort of person (Haha… sentimental. Yeah, right.) – of all people, he should know that it was 'do or die' in this world.

He didn't know why, but he had.

Call it a gut feeling. (Or instinct, if you were feeling _really_ fancy.)

And Altair always followed his gut. It never failed him.

…Usually.

Now he just had to hope this wasn't one of the 'usually' times.

With a thump, said object of his thoughts slipped through the bureau entrance, landing on the floor in a crouch.

"_Find the fugitive!"_

The male rose almost immediately, head turned upwards – his back, incidentally, against the two assassins.

Well, the stranger was most definitely _not_ of the Order, judging from his robes (or lack of them). Not to mention, the cloths covering him were… peculiar, to say the least.

Altair could almost _feel_ the waves of warning rolling off Malik.

The other was not of our Brotherhood. And thus, was a threat.

"_God damn it! We lost him!"_

Hearing the muffled curses of his pursuers, the outsider breathed out a sigh of relief.

And then he froze.

And turned.

And nearly had an aneurysm.

…That is, if Altair actually knew what an aneurysm _was_… but he didn't, so let's just say that the person was very, very, surprised.

"Al-Altair…?"

The assassin blinked.

_What?_

~( ^_^ )~

_Shit!_

Desmond slapped a hand over his mouth.

_Fuckfuckfuck I did __not__ just say that!_

Both assassins had seemingly turned to stone, stances turning from cautious to threatening almost immediately.

_OhgodOhgodOhgod._

Altair's jaw was tight, but Desmond knew very well that under the shadowed hood, his golden eyes were narrowed – confused, possibly, but most definitely suspicious.

The male immediately raised his hands in a sign of truce, nervously shaking his head. "I-I mean…uh…um…oh, _fuck_."

Without warning, he spun around, quickly grabbing the edge of the fountain and scrambling upwards. Clambering desperately over the edge of the entrance, Desmond was up and running, very nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Earlier was _nothing_ compared to the shit he was in now. _Nothing_.

He would rather have a friggin' _army _after him than god-fucking-dammit-_Altair_.

And he was sure he was following.

Every hair on the nape of his neck was rising, goose-bumps popping up all over his body as he sensed the piercing gaze of the other on his back.

And then there were the silent footsteps.

The fact that they were almost soundless made it all the more f-ing terrifying.

As in I-may-very-well-shit-my-pants-soon-terrifying.

Even when he had _been_ Altair, reliving his memories, he had already been slightly intimidated.

But now?

_If you're out there, somewhere, God, even though as an Assassin I don't believe in you and basically every action of me and my past ancestors spits in your face, please, please find it in your heart to save me now. _

_Please._

But obviously God was on his holiday today, as Desmond felt a hand fist into the back of his hoodie, jerking him backwards and slamming him sideways, into a (rather _conveniently_ placed) wall.

With a grunt, he braced for impact, hands coming up flat against the surface as he was shoved face-first into the building.

And soon, (further panicking his already-petrified brain) an upper-arm joined the hand, elbow digging painfully into his spinal cord.

"Who. Are. You?"

_What, no Hi?_

Yup, that's the sort of thing Desmond's mind came up with when pissing itself scared. Along with nonsensical blabbering noises, of course.

The assassin in training turned his head to the side in an attempt to speak, trying not to squash his cheeks against the wall. "Wa-wait, it's not what you think!" he hastened to say, hoping to appease the dangerous man. "Just let me explain myself first, Altai-."

With a yelp of surprise, Desmond was spun around, suddenly facing a _very_ angry assassin.

"_How _do you know my name?" the other hissed, fisting his collar and pulling him upwards, the descendant finding himself with only his toes touching the floor and a rather unpleasant choking sensation.

_Oh, y'know, I'm actually your descendant, coming back in time from nine hundred years in the future, and for the last month or so, I've been reliving your memories, basically invading all laws of decent privacy – so, the usual._

He couldn't exactly say that, now could he?

Well, he could, if he _really_ wanted a blade in his throat.

But he didn't. Shocking as that is.

"Um, well… it's sort of hard to explain…," he mumbled, eyes darting to the side.

_Wait a second, is that– ?_

"_Try me__."_

_Yes, it is! Maybe God's not on hiatus after all._

The little upside-down tornado that he had seen and utilised countless times shimmered behind Altair's right shoulder, the white letters of the animus code glitching in and out. He had absolutely no idea what it was doing here, but as of now, the mark was his only way out of the frying pan.

He would just have to hope that the stove _outside_ happened to be turned off.

"You see…," Desmond began, chewing on his bottom lip as he attempted to stall.

_It was so close…_

The hooded assassin's fist tightened, pushing almost painfully against the other's collarbone. "Answer me, _boy_," he growled, jaw tight and eyes narrowed with impatience.

The jean-clad male could not help but scowl defiantly at that, brown orbs flicking back to glare. "I am _not_ a boy! Jeez, I'm only a year younger than you!"

An eyebrow rose.

"And how, exactly, _do you know my age_?"

_Woah, Desmond, way to put your foot in it._

Altair lightly shook the ex-bartender, who felt distinctly like a rag-doll as his head bobbed to and fro.

"Ah, well, it's…erm…_difficult _to explain." Yeah. Just a little.

Those frightening, piercing eyes neared. "Shall I just _assume_ that you are a templar spy, then?"

"No! No, I-I'm on your side, 'kay?"

"Then why did you run?"

"Uh…"

_Oh, goody, let's see how much further I can shove my foot down my throat, yes?_

The wisps of white danced in the corner of his eye.

"Well…"

Altair was actually really scary with a cocked eyebrow. But then again, the assassin could have hiccupped right now, and Desmond would still have found it terrifying.

(…Well, maybe also a _bit_ funny.)

"You…you…," Desmond began, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck.

He was gonna need a shit-load of luck (and nine lives, if possible) to pass this off.

"You're actually my –."

"_Hey! You!" _Both their heads snapped towards the voice, a sentry running towards them, bow at the ready.

The brunette very nearly let out a sigh of relief. For once in his young life, he was actually _glad_ for the existence of annoying roof-top guards.

"Sorry, Altair," he grunted, shoving the distracted assassin away from him, shoving off the wall.

The other staggered slightly, amber eyes wide as his captive dashed past. "What are–?"

But he didn't hesitate. Lunging forward, Desmond leapt for the glyphs, hand brushing through the ghost-like substance.

And then the world fell away in a burst of white.

~( ^_^ )~

Ezio Auditore da Firenze was A Man. That had been confirmed many times, by _many_ women.

Oh, yes.

But he was also other things. He was a son. A brother. A nephew. Friendly. Loyal. Athletic. Handsome. Brave. Charming. Mysterious. Dashing. Awesome. Epical. God-like… need he go on?

He was many things (including, at times, arrogant).

But even he had to admit, 'flat as a pancake' (provided the pastry had been invented in that era) was something he had not previously experienced.

Then again, there was a first for everything, right?

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond had been prepared for anything.

Whether it was the roof of a clock tower in Firenze, or a swim in the Venice canals, with all their _wonderful_ scents, or possibly even straight into a group of patrolling guards, the assassin-in-training had been prepared.

Key word _had_.

No, what he hadn't fully prepared for was his absolutely _shitty_ luck.

Yes, _shitty_. Because who else but he, Desmond Miles –magnet for all that is horrible and misfortunate in the universe– would have appeared in Mid. Fucking. Air?

And guess what happens when you 'pop-up' eight metres in the air?

You drop.

Because gravity _loves_ torturing poor, _mere _mortals.

Now, usually a person would say that it could be much worse –after all, it could have been a _twenty_ metre drop, down onto a rock-hard cobblestone path– but _no_, not Desmond. Things could never go _right_ for him, now could they?

Yes, because as he fell through the air, his arms scrabbling to the sides as he searched for _some_ form of handhold (all the while fighting the climbing urge to scream like a little girl), he had to hear that voice.

No, not the one that whispers into your ear as you see your life flash before you – the one that goes "What the fu–?" in the baritone that is _way_ too familiar, suddenly cutting off into a grunt as you land on said voice owner's chest.

~( ^_^ )~

The Florentine assassin was glad that he had been in a melancholic mood that day – he tended to do things like enjoy the beauty of things around him more often when he was like that. Whether it be the birds chirping in the trees… or the beautifully vibrant flowers blossoming… or the way those courtesans were _so_ utterly elegant… or, in this case, admiring the clear, blue sky above Firenze.

That is, before a giant, peculiarly shaped blob had decided to materialise out of thin air and plummet _right above_ where he was standing.

Now usually Ezio was an extremely alert person.

But the falling thing fucking _materialised out of __thin air_.

So you will forgive him (and you shall– none can resist his 'puppy pout') for not being able to do much but absorb the impact as best he could.

"Urgh…," the Italian assassin began to rise from his location on the street, propping himself up on his elbows. "_Che diavolo?_"

There appeared… to be a person… on him…

Normally, that was a _very_ good thing – but in this case… well, it wasn't exactly a 'normal' situation.

"Ah, shit, that _hurt_!" The stranger – a male, raised his head, one hand rubbing against a seemingly sore forehead, the other on Ezio's breastplate (which had probably been the cause for the red welt on his brow).

"Pardona, but what precisely are you doing on my chest?" the assassin smirked, eyebrow raised.

Chocolate brown orbs rose, seemingly a little dazed, brown eyebrows joined together in a confused pout that Ezio could not help but find… adorable.

That was strange. It was not often that he found himself thinking of another male as attractive – let alone _cute_.

Well, there _was_ Leonardo… but that would just be… weird.

"You know, I don't usually mind people 'dropping in', but are you not taking it a bit _too_ literally?"

Chocolate-hued eyes widened.

"Ah!" and the stranger was off his chest almost immediately, still staring at Ezio in shock and… another emotion.

_Was that… __fear__?_

The assassin was a little hurt at that.

"Oh come now, am I really that scary?" he cocked his head to the side, smirking mischievously.

"Uh…"

But he never heard the other's answer, as the tell-tale sound of a blade flying through the air reached Ezio's sharp ears.

"Merda!" Moving reflexively, he rolled to the side – missing the throwing knife by inches as it embedded itself into the ground beside his neck.

_Who the fuck–?_

A shadow.

And that was the only warning he received before the Florentine was forced to move again, this time dodging the swing of a _very_ sharp sword.

A hand on the road, Ezio began to lift himself onto his feet, only to stop halfway through, activating his hidden blade to block the attacker's next swing.

"What the hell?"

He glanced up at the threat, eyes narrowed. And stopped short.

The other wore the robes of an assassin, the hooded robe and white colouring distinctive, as was the bracer on his left fore-arm.

"Wait! Are you– ?" he began, only to grunt as the sword beared down, the other letting out a low growl.

"Altair! Stop!" Both assassins looked towards the (previously forgotten) brunette. "Don't kill him!"

Ezio blinked.

_Al…tair…?_

He frowned, confused.

_But that is not–_

"Why?" the male growled, not allowing even a little tension to leave his weapon.

_It– it cannot be!_

"B-because! Just… stop attacking!"

If anything, the other only beared down harder. "I have no intention of stopping for a 'because'!"

"For God's sake– !"

_And yet–_

"Are you… Altair Ibn-La'Ahad?" Ezio spoke, interrupting the imminent argument.

Both strangers turned their attention to him.

The 'cute' one spoke first. "Yeah – he is."

A moment passed.

And then suddenly, the temperature seemed to drop from luke-warm to _frigid_.

"_Why…_," Altair began to speak, voice low.

"_Does…_," he gritted his teeth.

"_Everyone…_"

The nameless brunette had turned a rather sickly pale colour.

"_Know…_"

A shiver ran down Ezio's spine.

"_**My.**__"_

_I have a baaaad feeling…_

"_**Fucking.**_"

His blocking arm began to tremble from the effort of keeping the sword in place.

_Uh-oh…_

"_**NAME?**_"

…_Merda._

**I wuv this pairing/grous thingo. And don't get me wrong, I love LeoEzio too! (He's so cuuuuuuute!) But... they can't be together in this fic... *sniff***

**^_^ But anyway, there are not enough fics of these three together. I mean, I know it's impossible, and they all live in different times, and they look like brothers, and they're actually related... BUT IT'S SO HAWT!**

**So yeah, my first threesome~. Smut soon, probs (knowing my style of writing and my sick, sick perved mind); well, a teaser- no doing the deed yet, boys! X)**

**But yes, as mentioned earlier, Ezio has a KILLER puppy pout. It will make you 'awww' like never before, I tell you! (The link is here; just get rid of the spaces)**

**h t t p: / / l u ulala. de vi ant art .com/art/Deviant-ID-143254866**

**...**

**Che diavolo; what the hell**

**Pardona; excuse me/pardon**

**Merda; shit**

**...**

**Review please~! ^-^**

**...Even if it's just to rant at me for not updating in so long... **


	2. Chapter 2: Not So Sweetheart

**Hurrah! ^-^ I managed to actually write this out within 3 days! *happy dance***

**But yes, thank you for all your reviews, guys. Glad you liked it. **

**I ****_did _notice (after someone commented on it) that I had a basic lack of description in the last chappy. For that... I was shocked as hell XD. I re-read, compared, and actually realized that I had put in little-to-no description. Oh god, you have no idea how weird that felt; I remember when I started my motto in writing was; tone it down! Tone it down!**

**Had a little laugh about that. How I've changed... maybe it was my mood the other day.**

**But anyway, I put extra care into adding a little more description into my work this time round, so I hope it's better.**

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire. _

Nah, not even that – he had dropped into hell itself.

…Which had then proceeded to freeze over.

Because things like this should _not_ have been happening.

Apparently, Ezio was thinking the exact same thing.

"_What did you just say?"_

The Italian stood, eyes almost bugging out of his head as his mouth gaped open like a fish.

Desmond, too, was tempted to pinch himself. Again. Just to make sure. But doing that too many times could be painful, so he decided against it. No need to make the other two believe he was completely insane – if they didn't already think so now. "I _said_, that in the future, technology is different, and– ."

"No, no, I heard."

The American frowned, eyebrows scrunching together. "Then why did you –?"

Ezio shook his head. "It was a figure of speech, _Tesoro_," he sighed, as if the other was particularly slow.

_Sweet… heart…?_

Desmond wasn't quite sure how to react to that. I mean, there wasn't exactly a book named 'How to Deal With Your Lecherous Italian Ancestors if You Are Transported Back In Time'. So, y'know, he responded like any normal person would.

Via the universal sign of 'fuck off'.

And judging by the shocked expression on Ezio's face, he could happily say that 'the birdie' was quite a historical phrase.

Ignoring the spluttering, protesting Florentine ("Why? Why would you do that to me, Desmond? D-do I not mean anything to you?"), Desmond glanced over at the more silent member of their peculiar little group.

Altair stood at the open window of the inn room they had rented (through the use of a begrudging Ezio's money), arms crossed as he continued to survey the streets of Firenze, never moving, never speaking.

Even from his seemingly neutral profile, the Syrian was still on full alert. And could you really blame him? The male was in a time hundreds of years ahead of his, in a place that seemed like a completely different universe.

As much as Desmond didn't like the thought, him also ditching this whole 'I'm from the future thing' on top of the man's head probably wasn't helping his nerves any.

The brunette got up from his sitting position on the bed, crossing the small room to stand beside the statue-like man.

A slight twitch of the head. "Yes, Dez-muhnd?" His tone was completely impartial – almost frighteningly so. But his descendant could sense the difference; after experiencing so many things through Altair's eyes, he had learned the more subtle undertones of the assassin's moods.

Underneath the carefully laid layers, was a tightly wound coil of unease.

Leaning against the window-sill almost casually, the brunette locked eyes with the gold of his ancestor. "…You know…," he began, choosing his words carefully, lest he make the other even _more_ apprehensive. "It's safe here. Well, maybe not _safe _safe, but it's not that bad, and other than the guards, you don't have to be…," he paused, mentally kicking himself – why the hell was he blathering? "Um, what I mean is, uh, you don't have to be so…um…"

The other turned his head, the full, piercing gaze now on Desmond. "…It is fine, Dez-muhnd," he replied, voice neutral, but somehow… tired. The American felt a frown tug at his lips at that thought. "I am merely… adjusting. That is all."

And he turned back to the window, as if the conversation had never occurred.

Sighing almost soundlessly, the brunette rolled the sleeves of his hoodie up, pushing off the window sill once more.

His gaze rose to meet Ezio, who had been silent throughout their whole exchange, and was now gazing at Desmond with a rather peculiar expression.

_Well, better weird than how he was earlier._

He shuddered internally.

~( ^_^ )~

Woah, woah, baaaad. Very bad. No, fuck that, it was an _emergency_.

His ancestor was dangerously close to being shanked by his _other_ ancestor, and if even one of them died, then there was the scary, scary thought of _"What the fuck will happen to me?"_

Especially concerning Ezio. Because unless one of his conquests forgot to take their contraceptive pills (yes, he knows they weren't invented yet, but he was having a _meltdown_ – there was no time for technicalities!), then he wouldn't have an heir.

And no continuing heir, means _no Desmond_.

But at the same time, if he didn't tread extremely carefully on the thin ice that was currently Altair, there would be No Desmond either way.

And he wanted there to be Desmond. Really, he did.

"Al-Altair? Can we please talk about this?" he said, hands up in the air in a gesture of peace.

Incensed, dark-honey eyes glared over at him, causing the brunette to flinch. "If I remember correctly, the last time we _talked_, the conversation lasted for all of _twenty counts_, with the end result _you_ dragging _me _into this… this _place_!" the assassin growled, free arm gesturing angrily at the surrounding Florentine architecture.

"Well… here, we call 'this place' Firenze," the Italian male, still struggling under the other's onslaught, added… only to gain a dark snarl from the extremely _pissed-off _Syrian.

Of course. Ezio just couldn't _resist _putting his two cents in.

Desmond would have face-palmed in frustration if he wasn't currently afraid for their lives.

Shooting the younger of the two a look that said "Shut. The Fuck. Up.", he slowly got to his feet, taking a tentative step forward.

"But even if that's the case, he's obviously not an enemy, right?"

Altair narrowed his eyes further in response. "No, but he is _beyond _annoying."

Desmond couldn't help but agree at that, even as Ezio began to protest in rapid Italian. Moving carefully towards the two, the brunette attempted to appease the Syrian again. "But still, even if he _is_ annoying… ("Hey!") the fact of the matter is, he is also most definitely an assassin," he reasoned, motioning with his hands. "I know that, and you know that too."

Altair peered at the American, head cocked slightly to the side.

Then he nodded somewhat begrudgingly. "Fine."

The other two let out simultaneous breaths of relief.

A moment passed.

"So… uh… would you mind letting me up now?"

A raised eyebrow.

"_Aaaactually,_ why don't you just take your time? It's alright."

~( ^_^ )~

"I'm finding this hard to believe, Dez-muhnd."

"Uh… it's pronounced Des–," the brunette quaked under the replying glare. "…Never mind."

The floor was suddenly extremely interesting.

Scuffing the floor with the toe of his sneaker, he shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed. Altair had spoken little from the very beginning of his explanation (a full storyline, with his 'magical' i-pod accompaniment), and Ezio even less – which had been creepy as hell.

Two fingers gripped his chin, and the assassin-in-training suddenly found himself face-to face with a very, _very_ close-up Ezio.

"What the hell?" he protested, jerking away. Well, he _tried_.

Dark-brown eyes surveyed his face, the other turning his jaw from side to side. "The likeness is uncanny!" he murmured, thumb stroking over Desmond's jaw-bone (much to his annoyance).

The ex-bartender pursed his lips. "Yeah, we get it, Ezio. Now could you _please_ let go of my chin?"

"Almost identical…," the other mused, completely ignoring the younger's protests. "…Even down to the same scar… fascinating!"

_God, he's starting to sound like __Leonardo__, now. _

…But he was fairly sure Leonardo wouldn't have been stroking his lips…

"What the–?" he tried to mumble, only to be shushed by the Florentine.

…Who was really _way_ too close right now.

The other was leaning in, the smirk that Desmond knew all too well on his face.

_Woahwoahwoah, wait a sec._

"Ezio…," he narrowed his eyes. "…What are you doing…?"

"Why, admiring your pretty face, of course."

The brunette could feel his eye begin to twitch.

…_You can't be serious…_

"Ezio…"

"Yes, _mia bella_?"

"Did you hear what I said earlier?"

"Yes…"

"…So you do realise we're related, right?"

"Well, I would not say–."

"And that we look nearly the same?"

"Even if that is the case–."

"And the fact that you're flirting with me right now is vaguely disturbing?"

"…Ah…"

"_I am __not__ related to him_." Desmond blinked owlishly, looking over Ezio's shoulder to Altair, who was frowning darkly. "Better I have a _peacock _as a relation than _him_, strutting around in such gaudy robes."

The Italian raised an eyebrow in response, still not losing his smirk as he turned slightly. "Come now, _Maestro_. Do they really offend you so?"

"No, your clothing is pointless, but bearable," the Syrian replied. "_You_, on the other hand…"

Never one to concede, the Florentine assassin cocked his head to the side, releasing the other's chin (_Finally_). "Oh? And what, precisely, is so repulsive about me?"

"You are arrogant, react slowly in a fight, are too quick to trust others, have no sense of lethality, and, worst of all, put your libido at the fore-front of your actions," Altair listed off, voice flat.

Desmond almost choked.

Ezio had turned a rather amusing pink, shocked into silence.

_Oh God, that's hilarious._

Unable to suppress a smile, he pursed his lips together, looking to the side.

_Don't laugh, don't laugh._

The Italian had now resorted to pouting, making the brunette's attempt at neutrality all the more difficult.

His ribs were hurting from all the breath he was holding in.

"…In other words, the very definition of 'idiot'."

The dams broke.

And soon there stood two assassins staring at a young man laughing his ass off in the middle of an alleyway.

"Dezmond?" Ezio inquired uncertainly, not quite sure what to do about the outbreak of gasping and giggling that had overtaken the other.

The assassin-in-training clutched his stomach. "Don't *hic* mind me *hic*," he managed to giggle, before the bewildered look on both his ancestors' faces pushed him over the edge again.

Bending over, he placed his hands on his knees, trying very, very hard not to fall over as the tremors of glee wracked him. "It's *hic* just that *snort* Altair is sorta right, and *pff* your face – priceless!" he sniggered, tears threatening to spill.

He wasn't even sure why he was laughing this hard – maybe because the situation was just so goddamn surreal.

…Or maybe he really had crossed the line between 'sorta weird' and 'completely bat-shit crazy'.

Another minute or so, and Desmond finally managed to calm himself down.

And Ezio still looked a bit offended.

"Sorry," he smiled up at the wide-eyed assassins. "I was just having a moment."

Altair just nodded, giving him a strange look. His _other_ ancestor, though…

With a yelp of surprise, the ex-bartender suddenly found himself in the arms of said predecessor, receiving… a bear hug…

_What the fuck?_

"…Ezio… can't… breathe… breast-plate… in… chest…"

And then he was sprawled on the floor, gasping in breaths as he looked up to an annoyed Altair, the Syrian holding the pouting Florentine by the back of his hood. Rubbing his brow with his fore-fingers, he sighed resignedly. "Do you have no tact what-so-ever, novice?"

"B-but did you see that _smile_? It was so… so…"

"_Yes_, I saw that smile, but I still had the _sense_ not to attack him!"

Ezio pouted.

Then grinned, eyebrows waggling.

"…So, you were _thinking_ of attacking him…?"

The resulting silence was one of the most awkward moments of Desmond's young, young life (Well, after meeting a certain Italian assassin, he was sure that the stress was going to cause him to age _pre-tty_ fast).

Altair dropped Ezio, spinning around and striding down the alleyway. "…Let us leave. We have stayed too long."

The Florentine's smirked contentedly, dusting himself off and looking over to a stunned Desmond, who was still staring in shock after the retreating Syrian male.

_Huh?_

~( ^_^ )~

Yeah, 'weird' looks never sounded so good. As long as it kept the other _off_ him, he was cool with it.

"Dezmond."

"Hm?"

"Is there any way to fix this predicament?" Ezio asked, completely serious for once.

The American frowned. "I already told you…," he muttered, sighing. "I don't know…" Scratching the back of his head, Desmond continued. "Maybe… we need to find someone to help?"

The other nodded. "That would be best. Sadly though, Paola is out of town, searching for some vague document related to the Piece of Eden, and La Volpe… well, he can be… _difficult_ to contact." The Florentine gave him a look that said, 'You know who I'm talking about, right?'

"Is Leonardo in town? He's decoded most of the codex pages, right? He shouldn't be too hard to convince."

Altair froze. Then turned to the pair, eyebrows drawn together. "Codex pages? You mean the ones that I…"

Desmond nodded. "Ezio steals– ahem, _finds _them, then Leonardo decodes."

"But I only recently started…"

His descendant shrugged. "This shouldn't even be happening right now, so…"

"We will have to deal with it best we can," the Italian assassin finished. "And no, he is still in Venezia as of now, so we would have to travel fairly far to reach him." Frowning thoughtfully, he continued. "Maybe Uncle Mario will be better? And as for La Volpe… he has his ways."

The side of Altair's mouth was curved downwards in an annoyed grimace. "Should I be asking who these people are?"

"_Pardona, Maestro_, but you will have to trust us for this."

The Syrian raised his eyebrow. "And that in itself will be a difficult task already… at least in regards to _you_."

Desmond snickered quietly, coughing into his hand quickly when Ezio shot him a look.

Clearing his throat, the ex-bartender attempted to change the topic. "So anyway, let's just get some sleep for now." He motioned towards the sky outside, which was slowly turning an orange hue.

Altair nodded in affirmation. "Of course."

All three men looked towards the queen-sized bed.

"So, uh… who gets the bed?"

~( ^_^ )~

"You two are so mean, do you know that?" Ezio grumbled, voice low as he shifted uncomfortably against the make-shift pillow of his assassin robes.

"Quiet, novice."

The Italian pouted, choosing to speak anyway. "There is a perfectly good _double_ bed right there, and the two of us are sleeping on the floor," he whispered, annoyance colouring his tone. "…And I'm not a novice…"

"The fact that you are complaining about something so trivial proves that you most definitely _are_." Altair replied, voice monotone. "Either way, I doubt that our descendant would have allowed you within a metre of that bed – your position on the floor had been determined since we entered the room."

Ezio huffed.

Suddenly, his mood did a complete three-sixty as he turned over to face the Syrian. "Then why are you not taking advantage of that empty space?" he teased, smiling mischievously. "Don't tell me you are not tempted."

The other's eyes snapped open, the gold shining almost ephemerally in the moonlight. "Unlike you, _boy_, I have no intention of exploiting his trust in me."

"…Yet?"

Altair did not reply, turning away.

"Admit it, _Maestro_," Ezio grinned, whispering over the slow, even breathing of their sleeping descendant. "You are just as enticed as I am."

"…Shh."

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond shifted in the bed, eyes shut against the bright light of day.

_Sleeeeeeep…_

Screw daytime – he was _not_ leaving bed today.

But alas, he was not destined for happiness, as soon a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Squeezing his eyes closed stubbornly, the assassin-in-training attempted to shrug it off, turning onto his back and pulling the pillow onto his face.

"Five more minutes, Shaun," he groaned.

A low chuckle, and then a weight settled onto his thighs. "I do not know who this 'Shaun' is, _Tesoro_," a voice that most definitely did _not_ belong to the sarcastic British man purred into his ear. "…but I am not him…"

_Ezio._

"Ezio!" Desmond exclaimed, pillow thrown to the side as his eyes snapped open.

The Italian assassin sat in all his glory, straddling (_Ohmygod_) the startled brunette, sultry smirk curving his lips. "Mmm, that's better…," he murmured, hands on both sides of the other's head as he leaned down, nose brushing teasingly against his descendant's. "…But I wonder how it would sound in _another_ tone of voice…"

At his words, a sprinkle of pink blossomed on the American's cheeks, Desmond suddenly holding his breath. "Uh…"

Ezio's eyelids lowered. "What a charming colour…," his palm coming up to cup the other's cheek, thumbs brushing over the heated skin. "Then again, _anything_ would look good on your skin, no?"

The blush only spread, before the assassin-in-training was frowning, eyebrows pulled together. "Stop this, Ezio," he muttered, hands coming up to push against the other's chest. "You're being an idiot."

"Are you sure…?" In response, the Italian slowly grasped Desmond's hands, pushing them down onto the bed. "I could show you so _much_…"

_F-f-fuck._

The other was leaning in now, sultry smirk promising many, _many_ things.

_No. No. Hell to the __no__._

"I'm serious Ezio," he growled out (attempted, at least). "Don't…," his breath caught as the Florentine's scarred lips were suddenly so _close_. "Le-let me go…," the assassin-in-training cursed internally even as he said those words – where the fuck did his coherency disappear to?

Desmond could feel the other's _breath_ on his lips.

"…And if I say 'No'…?"

"Well, that won't be a problem, as I'll be saying 'Yes' _for_ you."

And then the ex-bartender was suddenly left feeling much cooler than before, as Ezio was pulled off of him, Altair hauling the other up by the scruff of his white under-shirt.

"Oi!" the Italian struggled against the other assassin's hold, looking very much like a puppy caught red-handed.

The Syrian shook his head, sighing exasperatedly. "I leave for five minutes, and I come back to see you climbing all over Dez-mund (Hey, his accent was improving) like a dog in heat."

"Dezzy didn't mind!"

_De-Dezzy?_

The hoodied male could feel his eye twitching, his earlier flush _completely _gone by that point.

And then he realised something – something rather important.

Yes, it dawned on him – That Ezio. Had just molested him.

In. His. Bed.

Oh, there would be _hell_ to pay.

**I had planned for Ezio to harass Dezzy in the alleyway, but then it didn't work, so... FLUFF ALL THE WAY!**

**But yes, concerning that alleyway scene; it wasn't OOC, was it? I had this nagging feeling through the entire thing... it just didn't turn out as well as I think it could have.**

**Plus the little teaser at the end; I do so like my foreplay~. ^-^**

**Please, do review. And constructive criticism/comments on peculiar sections are always appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3: Kittens and Puppies

**Oh God, I improve something, and then I do something else wrong instead... XD **

**It's true that my last chappy wasn't anywhere near as sarcastic as the first, but... can't do much about it - this one will be less amusing, too... probably. **

**My sarcasm does tend to depend on the situation - and I don't want to get boring by repeating the same stuff again and again... ^_^;; Hehe.**

**Oh well, give some, take some.**

**Still hope you likey, though! ^-^**

"…Dezmond…?"

"…"

"Are you still… displeased with me?"

"…"

Altair bit into the red apple in his hand, eyes appraising the sea of people milling about in the streets from his position on the roof-tops. And although he _could_ have been analysing the patrol patterns of the guard squads, or possibly observing the mannerisms of the citizens –in an attempt to easier blend in – he, quite honestly, didn't want to.

Why, you ask?

No, not because he was lazy (God forbid).

"…Dez…mond…?"

"…"

It was simply because there were far more interesting things to do. For example, eavesdropping on the one-sided conversation of a sulking novice and a certain frigid brunette, who were currently seated on the sloped rooftop behind his perch.

Hey, even Master Assassins need a little entertainment once in a while.

"Would you please reply?" the Italian assassin asked, appealing to their tight-lipped descendant.

"…" A crunch as Desmond bit into his own apple.

"Please…?"

"…" More tense silence.

"Come now, _Teso_ – erm, Dezmond," Ezio reasoned, "I simply wish to know why you are so… hostile."

The Syrian was caught between raising an eyebrow and sighing in exasperation. _Is he really __that __dense?_

"…You want to know…_why_…?" The first response from the silent American.

Altair smirked, the quirk of his lips barely noticeable from behind his fruit. _Here it comes._

"Er… Yes…,"came the half-hesitant, half-eager reply.

"You can't think of _anything_ you did?"

There was silence. Then, "Oh."

A rustle of fabric as the Italian assassin shifted uncomfortably. "But… was it _that_ unforgivab–?" he began, before halting abruptly. "…Er, it appears that it was…"

The frosty silence that ensued was almost comical – unless you were Ezio, of course. But the Syrian was not, and thus he was enjoying _every moment_ of the other's plight.

And it wasn't as if he blamed the Florentine – their descendant was particularly adept at the silent treatment. It was amusing to observe the change in the once-nervous brunette – _Seemingly harmless, but frightening when crossed._

_Like a cat. _

Altair coughed, quickly concealing the snort of laughter that had threatened to spill.

_I wonder if he claws like one, too?_

"I completely understand, Dezmond," the Syrian was almost impressed by the Florentine's speed in covering up. Almost.

"Do you really?" the other's reply was frighteningly monotone.

"O-of course!"

"…And…?"

"I'm… sorry…?"

_Akin to a guilty puppy. _

_Being reprimanded by a kitten, as well. _Altair chuckled inwardly. _What an absurd image._

"…"

"No, no, I really am!" _And thus the grovelling ensues._

"…"

"… Please…?"

If Ezio truly was his descendant, there was no doubt that he would be utilising the most powerful of Altair's hidden weapons – the legendary pout.

And if Desmond was anything like a teenage Malik…

He wouldn't stand a chance.

"…"

"Dezmond…?"

_3, 2, 1…_

"…Fine."

_See? Humiliating, but __effective__._

"Really?" the Florentine all but chirped, an idiotic grin most likely plastered on his face. "You will forgive me?"

"Yes, Ezio," their descendant replied, sighing resignedly. "But you know what this means, right?"

Well obviously, the novice _didn't_. "Er… what?"

"Hands. To. Your Fucking. Self." Desmond ground out, before continuing. "Meaning, no – groping, molesting, kissing, licking, nose-touching, face-touching, lip-touching, hair-touching, _anywhere_-touching – No. _Touching._ Period."

"B-but– !"

"No exceptions, Ezio."

"Not even a little?"

"… A _little_?" the warning in the other's voice was evident.

"Dezzy– !"

"God-dammit! Don't call me that! My name is _Desmond!_ Not 'sweetheart', not 'darling', _Des._ _Mond!_"

"…" _Ah, the puppy is finally silent._

Dropping his apple core onto the streets below ("Ow! What the hell hit me?"), Altair turned around, his expression neutral – as if he had not been there the entire time, overhearing their conversation. "Where is our next objective?"

Desmond looked towards him, ignoring the sulking Ezio and getting to his feet. "I think… I'll need a change of clothes, first," he sighed, looking down at his hoodie. "And probably some form of weapon, too…"

Altair raised an eyebrow. "You can fight?"

"Well, duh," the other glared at him, lips twisted in annoyance. "I basically lived through your lives, remember? I should think that I can handle a few fucking _guards_."

The Master Assassin felt his eyes narrow. "Then you will have to prove it, Little one."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not– !"

"I know a place." Two sets of eyes turned to a now-standing Ezio, who crossed his arms, expression grim. Pulling his hood back up over his head, the other stalked off, motioning with a hand.

"Follow me."

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond tugged at the cuffs of his new shirt, smoothing over the woollen texture of the tunic. It fit him well.

_Although I could do with a little more… freedom._

The brunette grimaced, fighting the urge to pull at the fabric surrounding his butt. _God, it's like I have a never-ending wedgie._

"Really though…," he mumbled to himself, sighing. "What is Ezio thinking, coming here…?"

Running a finger over the thick layer of dust collected on the dresser beside him, the male let out another breath. The paintings adorning the walls… the vases that had once held blooming flowers… the forgotten books lining the shelves… all of it reeked of a lost happiness.

…_Ezio's happiness._

It was true that using the Florentine's old clothes would be more convenient and require less contact with suspicious tailors. _But still…_

It felt wrong.

Even Desmond felt some sadness when looking through the abandoned house. He couldn't even imagine what the other was experiencing.

_Idiot…_

The door opened. "Are you ready to go?" And there stood the man himself.

He looked towards the Italian assassin, trying to decipher the stone-cold expression that was so unlike the man. Coupled with his tense stance, arms crossed and eyes hooded, he looked exactly like the intimidating killer he was supposed to be.

_But he isn't just that. And he shouldn't be. _

"Yeah…," he replied, voice quiet. The other turned to leave, but stopped as Desmond's hand shot out, gripping the hooded man's shoulder. "Wait, Ezio."

The reply was but a quiet murmur. "Is there something you wanted?"

"I…," Desmond bit his lip. _How am I supposed to say this?_ "Are you okay?"

If possible, the Florentine tensed even more. "What… precisely do you mean by that?"

"It's just… I'm sorry if you're feeling… uncomfortable… right now," he said, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. "I mean, I know if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have to… and you wouldn't be…"

"Ah, so you know…," Ezio murmured, turning his head to the side. "That is fair enough, I guess."

Then he smiled. He smiled the most heart-broken smile the other had ever seen.

And with those sad, sad brown eyes, Desmond's heart cried a little too.

"It is fine, Dezmond."

_No, no it's not. _He wanted to cry out, to hug the other, to say something, _anything_.

But he couldn't.

And soon the other's shoulder left his frozen grip, and the assassin-in-training was left alone.

_I am such a shitty person._

~( ^_^ )~

"Are you comfortable with horses, Dezmund?"

Altair looked at the brunette, who was gazing at – his eyebrow rose – Ezio, seemingly lost to the world. The Syrian's mouth twisted in annoyance.

"Dezmund."

"Huh?" Now he had his attention.

"Can you ride?" he stated, slightly more forceful than was necessary.

The other's eyes were still hazy as he replied, nodding absent-mindedly. "Yeah, sure I can." And then his eyes were back on the Italian.

The assassin could feel his eyes narrow. _Why is he so interested __now__, after rejecting the other so swiftly before? _

And Ezio himself was being completely out of character, too, to make things more puzzling. The man had yet to say more than a few words since leaving that house – and the blank expression wasn't helping, either.

_But wasn't that what you wanted from the start anyway? Peace?_

Altair grit his teeth in frustration. _Not like this, damn it._

Swinging onto his own steed, he glared at the silent Florentine, motioning with his head. "Hurry up. We do not have all day, _novice_."

The other did not reply with a snarky remark, or a cheeky smile – not even a growl of annoyance.

Just a simple nod.

And the Syrian was more discontent than ever.

_What is possessing those two?_

Gold orbs flickered over to the youngest of their group, and he growled inwardly.

_Still goddamn staring. With such an unreadable expression, too._

He hated not knowing.

And as something in his chest burned in anger, anger at how those warm, brown eyes were directed at _the other_ so faithfully, Altair decided that was all that it was – irritation at his lack of knowledge.

That was all.

~( ^_^ )~

They had ridden for a fair few hours, and as the sun was highest in the sky, the trio stopped for a rest.

"Do you want some of the meat?" Desmond asked, tentative even as he voiced such a simple question towards the almost-completely-silent Italian.

The long-haired male looked at the piece of cooked pork in the American's hand. Then nodded.

"Yes," he replied, taking the food. "Thank you, Dezmond."

And he smiled.

It was small, but it was genuine.

Internally, the brunette let out a breath of relief. _Thank goodness._

~( ^_^ )~

_What…?_

And now the two were smiling at each other over lunch, as if nothing had ever occurred.

Altair felt his jaw tighten.

The ache was back.

~( ^_^ )~

"And there it is! Monteriggioni!"

Desmond smiled. Partly at the nostalgia of once more seeing the Tuscan town, and partly at how Ezio had once more gained his voice.

A short while after their break, the Florentine had become boisterous and cheerful once more, boasting to the (slightly annoyed) Syrian assassin about the wonders of his 'home' and cracking jokes about the other's lack of response.

For that, he was glad. Even if Ezio had been _really_ annoying at some points.

"_Maestro Auditore!" "Oh my goodness, it's Ezio!" _Various voices acknowledged their arrival as the trio entered the town, many of the people clamouring.

The Italian seemed to soak up the attention _prett-y_ well, too. Smiling, waving, blowing kisses (Desmond made gagging motions – to which Altair smiled ever so slightly) – the usual routine for Ezio-the-slight-attention-whore (no, no, really – he had the attention of _all _the courtesans present).

Thankfully, Monteriggioni wasn't all that large, and so they only had to suffer through a minute or two of swooning women and loud-as-fuck mercenaries, before reaching the front entrance of the Auditore Villa.

"Ezio!" A flurry of fabric hurtled out a side door as they entered the mansion, almost knocking over the Florentine. "You're back!"

"Hello, Claudia," he smiled down at his little sister, who was still hugging his chest as she beamed up at him. "It has been a while, no?"

"Mhm!" she nodded excitedly. Then paused, before cocking her head to the side. "So… are you here to look at the book?"

Desmond quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hold back the fit of giggles that had bubbled up. _The first… thing… she says…_

Altair stared at him incredulously, but the brunette only waved him off.

Too many times he had come back to Monteriggioni when going through Ezio's memories, and Claudia would say the exact same thing, repeatedly, regardless of how many times Desmond returned (hey, you can't program a realistic reply for a memory that never occurred – the Animus 2.0 was good, but it wasn't _that_ good).

_Guess it wasn't that far off reality. _He snickered internally.

"Oh!" the young lady turned her gaze onto the other two, apparently noticing their presence only now. "And… who would you be?"

"Uh…" _Yeah, reaaal smooth, Desmond. No wonder you're just __so__ popular with girls._

Thankfully, he didn't have to embarrass himself (…again) or appear as an illiterate idiot (…again), as Ezio stepped in quickly. "They are… friends, Claudia," he re-assured, before ruffling her hair. "Now could you go and fetch Uncle Mario for me?"

~( ^_^ )~

The young Auditore glanced carefully at the scarred man seated across from him, hands clasped together as he leaned forward onto his knees. "…Uncle…?"

And when he said carefully, he _meant _carefully. Lest the older man experience a heart attack or something.

For at the moment, he looked pretty damn close.

Mario was staring down at his desk, head in his hands as he mumbled words under his breath. "It – it's not possible… insanity… such a thing…"

Ezio was truly beginning to worry for his uncle's mental health (Well, he had been expecting it for a while… even as a child, the brunette had always been positive that his _Zio _– although fun – was bat-shit insane).

_Is this… Will this be the moment? The moment when he finally tips over the side?_

"If… if this is the case, then…"

The Florentine tensed, looking over to his side at Desmond, who wore a similar expression to him.

"Then… this is…" the older assassin placed his hands on the desk.

He waited with bated breath.

"… WONDERFUL!" Mario leapt upwards, arms shooting into the air.

And Ezio nearly fell out of his chair.

His uncle strode quickly across the room to the still-standing Altair, grabbing his hand and shaking it vigorously. "It is an honour to be in the presence of a true _Maestro_ such as you!"

_Che-che diavolo?_

The Syrian assassin seemed to be thinking about the same thing. "Of… course…," he mumbled, eyes slightly wider than normal.

"If possible, do you think you could spare some time–,"

"Uncle!"

"Later, _nipote_! –and train with a few of my _mercenari_?"

Ezio had managed to right himself fully at this point, and was now making incredulous motions with his hands. "B-but what about the fact that he shouldn't _exist_?"

"Naturally, I understand that you must be busy, so if you wish to– ,"

"_Uncle!_"

"What _is_ it, Ezio!" Mario finally stopped speaking, turning to his nephew (not releasing his hold on the Syrian's hand, much to the assassin's chagrin).

The other appeared to be flailing. "Wh-why are you not shocked? Where is the disbelief?"

"_Nipote_, there is nothing not to believe!" the man sighed, as if it was the most obvious thing to say. "If he is here, then he is here!"

"But what if he's a spy, o-or a templar in disguise?" (Altair growled warningly at the younger Auditore, _still_ trying to release his hand… and was completely ignored)

"Yet you were the one who said he could be trusted!" Mario rolled his eyes (and/or visible eye), gesturing in the peculiar way Italians seemed to do so often. "Or are you saying that I should not trust your word?"

Ezio waved his arms in the air (_Like a bird… or a chicken…_ Desmond mused), exclaiming, "No! I do not mean that! It's just that– !"

"Just _what_, _nipote_?"

"It's not normal!" More arm waving (which Altair wished he currently had the freedom to do, but _no_).

"Not many things are _normal_, Ezio," Mario stated patiently, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. "You should just be thankful that this is a _good_ thing."

And the man turned to Desmond now, smiling widely. "So, you say you are from the future…?"

Ezio's eye twitched.

Altair's eye twitched.

_Why is he… being so…? _The Italian wrestled with the concept of his Uncle's possible/very likely insanity.

_My… hand… _The Syrian wrestled with the idea that someone could actually have such a tight grip while distracted.

_Help… _Desmond just didn't want to sit there for two hours explaining what electricity was.

~( ^_^ )~

Ezio was glad that he had decided to forego sleeping in late today.

Very, _very_ glad.

"Widen your stance!" the low voice commanded over the loud clashing of swords, addressing a certain young assassin-in-training. "Pull your elbows in a little more!"

Altair was quite a ruthless teacher, it would seem.

"Do _not_ step backwards!"

"Then stop attacking so damn quickly!" And Desmond was a frustrated student.

"Do you think that the enemy will fight nicely merely because you are a novice?" The Syrian growled, un-relentless in his assault. "If you think that, then you are not worthy of holding a blade!"

Altair was pitiless, Desmond was tired, and Ezio?

Ezio was in _heaven_.

Two perfect, round globes of flesh, hugged so tightly by the fabric covering it that it left nothing to the imagination… the long, long legs that would be oh-so-perfect for wrapping around his waist… that delicious ass… that shirt that was just open enough to show off the smooth, tanned skin hidden underneath… and did he mention that butt? Oh _yes_, that butt…

If his behind had looked _half_ that good when _he_ had been wearing those pants, the Florentine could understand why girls had always been so quick to jump him.

"Unf!" said ass was suddenly on the floor, soon followed by Desmond himself. "Ow!"

And Altair stood over him, sword-tip to the brunette's neck before he could blink. "Watch your feet."

"Yeah, yeah," the American muttered, knocking the Syrian's blade away with his hand. "Seriously though…" he got up, wincing. "That _hurt_."

_Il mio dio…_

That _perfect _behind was being caressed – no, _rubbed_ – thoroughly, exactly in the ways that Ezio wished he himself could… the way he would grope that ass, feeling the supple flesh beneath his finger-tips…

_Cazzo. _Hastily, he looked away, hand covering the lower half of his face.

_That is __way__ too much excitement for early morning, amico._

"Ezio." Altair was staring at him.

"Hrm?" he replied through his fingers, trying to look as innocent as possible.

_What are you talking about? Of course I wasn't molesting Dezmond with my eyes. And me covering my mouth definitely has nothing to do with the fact that I may or may-not be drooling._

Those dangerous gold eyes narrowed slightly.

"Let us spar."

~( ^_^ )~

_The gloved hand hovered over the smooth doorknob, hesitating. _

_**What am I doing here?**_

_Ezio looked down towards his feet, other hand clenched by his side. _

_**Why do they linger?**_

_He squeezed close his eyes, willing away the memories filling his mind._

_**Why do **__**I**__** linger?**_

_It still felt like they were there. Everywhere he looked, the scenes would replay – every corner of the rooms which laughter had once filled, every dusty chair that had been used until old and faded, every curtain that framed the sunlight that had warmed his home._

_**It hurts.**_

_It was as if the ghosts were still there, looking upon him with loving eyes – eyes that he would never see again._

_He sighed. _

_**Don't dwell.**_

_A deep breath._

_He opened the door, and the male inside looked up in surprise._

_And suddenly it didn't feel so agonizing._

"_Are you ready to go?"_

_Because he was no longer alone._

**So? How was it? I made sure to put every section ('xcept the last one) chronologically this chappy, so hopefully none of you were confused by my time-jumping this time round.**

**Is... Mario... weird? (No, I don't mean in that way; I know all the Auditores are insane in some way or another) I know he was OOC, but was it 'horrible' OOC, or 'acceptable' OOC?**

**Hrm, I'm a tad bi-polar, aren't I? Jumping from random-ass funny shit to serious drama-queen in the space of... what? Two paragraphs?**

**Review pweeeeaaaasee~.**

**'Twould make my day/week/month/time until next update. **

**S2 Love to all! S2 - Wuv heart ^-^**

_Maestro_ – master

_Zio_ – uncle

_Nipote_ – nephew

_Il mio dio_ – oh my god

_Cazzo_ – fuck


	4. Chapter 4: No Touching

**Hrm, it's been a while, huh? Still not very long, though, considering my track-record. XD**

**If you're annoyed though, I have a feeling that this chappy will make up for it. *giggles evilly* **

**I feel less talkative today, so I'll just let you get on with the chapter~. ^-^**

Desmond was sure this was going to end badly.

Like, _really, __really_ badly.

He perched on the low brick wall surrounding the _mercenari _practice yard, anxiously observing the two men within the ring.

_A full-weapon face-off between two master assassins who may-or-may-not hate each other? Oh yeah, __that's__ smart._

It was bit too late now, though.

In the centre, both of his ancestors stood facing each other, still as stone. There was no banter, no threats, feints or insults. Just silence.

Neither moved an inch. Neither needed to.

Yet.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

Even the mercenary bystanders were noiseless, all eyes riveted to the scene about to unfold.

_And a scene it would be._

They sprung.

Altair's dagger glinted in the sunlight as he pulled it from its sheathe, the Syrian dashing forwards – momentum bringing him to a leap, just as the rasp of Ezio's sword signalled its release.

Their weapons collided. But for only a moment, before both sprung away from each other, falling into cautious defensive positions.

With almost painstaking patience, the two circled, bodies low and tense.

Desmond held his breath.

The slight change of weight in the Florentine's stance. And suddenly they were both against each other once more, steel clashing.

It was like watching a dance. A dangerous, high-probability-fatality dance.

Both assassins mirrored each other – a swipe of the dagger was met with the iron of a sword, a disarming grab from the Syrian dodged by the Italian.

It was… impressive, to say the least.

Desmond was still worried, though.

Suddenly, Ezio dropped to the ground, Altair's swipe missing his head by inches. Twisting around, the Florentine's foot shot to the side as he rotated, momentum also bringing him upwards. The other leapt back in response, dodging the swipe at his knees.

And then Italian assassin was running forwards, slashing at him. The Syrian raised his dagger to deflect, pushing the sword to the side with a flick of his wrist, before striking at Ezio with his fist. The male grunted in pain, staggering backwards.

But Altair only surged forward, taking advantage of the Florentine's short moment of exposure. Hooking his leg into the other's, he tugged, using his own body weight to shift the Italian further off-balance.

A smirk of victory began to grace the Syrian's face, before it quickly transformed into a wide-eyed look of surprise as Ezio dropped his sword, grabbing his opponent's arm as he fell to the side.

And suddenly there were two assassins sprawled in the dirt, one grinning like mad, the other wearing a look of complete bewilderment (well, as 'bewildered' as Altair can _get_).

Desmond gazed at the both of them in astonishment, blinking repeatedly.

"So how was that, _Maestro_?" the Florentine inquired teasingly, rising to one arm.

The Syrian, recovering quickly from his shock, frowned, gold orbs narrowing. "What are you so pleased about, _novice_?" he pouted –sorry, _growled_– , rising quickly to his feet. "You are not exactly the victor."

"Ah, but I am," the Florentine's grin grew. "Not many can say that they brought the great Altair Ibn-La'Ahad to the ground."

The other's lips pursed in response. (_No, no, it was a pout. Most definitely a pout. _Desmond snickered internally.)

"Get up. We are sparring again."

~( ^_^ )~

Altair… was not the type of person to take kindly to loss.

That fact was enforced many times over in the hour after. Many, _many_ times. Painfully.

But Ezio didn't mind.

The expression on the Syrian's face had been hilarious.

The Italian reclined in his chair, feet kicked up onto the desk within his attic bedroom. Picking up a random book, he flicked distractedly through the pages, not particularly intent on reading.

Why? Because there was nothing more satisfying than being deliberately counter-productive.

Sounds from the practice ring below the villa could be heard through the open windows to his side, accompanying the soft breeze… and the grunts of suffering mercenaries. The Florentine could not help but let a slightly-sadistic grin grow.

Altair had an insane stamina. And it was quite obvious that the Syrian was still a tad sore from his 'loss' earlier that morning.

"Oh, Ezio~!" A face popped up from the entrance of his room. "How are you?" The newcomer was all rainbows and unicorns, radiating sunshine and goodwill… sort of.

Buuut, said newcomer's brother knew otherwise.

"What is it that you want from me, Claudia?" He sighed good-naturedly, the Florentine raising an eyebrow, lip curled into a knowing smile.

The female Auditore pouted. "You don't have to be so rude!" She pushed herself up onto the flooring with a huff, hands on her hips as she straightened to her full height… which wasn't very much.

"But it is true, no?" Ezio lowered his legs, getting up from his chair.

"But still!"

Her older brother did not reply, strolling towards her until he stood, arms crossed.

"…" Claudia was not amused. "…Phooey."

The male smirked.

Still sulking, the younger Auditore continued. "Anyway, I was just about to go into town, and –."

"You needed a pack mule?"

The female rolled her eyes, turning away. "I was going to say 'helping hand', but if you are so intent on being a total ass, then so be it."

_Ah, Claudia. The only person who can use vulgar words within a sentence while still sounding entirely refined._

The Italian assassin smiled down at his sister through the gap in his flooring as she began her slow descent to the flight below, replying, "With the amount that _you_ usually purchase, you would need an _army_ of men."

Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Claudia smiled wryly up at her brother. "And you think that you are strong enough to be a substitute?" she gave him a sardonic look, flattening her dress. "Don't flatter yourself, _idiota_."

"What, then?" Swinging through the entrance, Ezio dropped down, not even bothering to use the (readily available) ladder, landing in a crouch. "Did you finally manage to charm a few poor young men into becoming your eternal servants?" he teased, rising to a standing position ("Show off," his sister muttered under her breath).

"Not precisely…," Claudia smirked mischievously, as the both of them walked along the hallways of the villa, passing through the study (Ezio receiving a spirited greeting from the _always_-happy-to-see-him architect) and into the main entrance room.

_Huh._

The Florentine blinked a few times in surprise, steps faltering for a moment.

"Hello, Dezmond!" his little sister chirped, smiling sweetly as she waved at the waiting male.

It appeared the other had not been expecting him either. His (absolutely adorable) face pinched into a frown of confusion, before becoming neutral again. "Uh, hi," he mumbled in reply, glancing away from the Italian assassin to nod at Claudia.

Regaining his composure, Ezio grinned, directing a teasing question at the younger Auditore, "I am surprised, Claudia…,"he began, a slow, satisfied smile growing on her face at his apparent forfeit. "…that somehow you were able to swindle poor Dezmond into doing your dirty work, too…" The smile dropped like a ton of bricks.

Narrowing her eyes stubbornly, his sister chose to ignore the statement, instead turning to Desmond and grasping his arm, pulling him forwards and hooking her own through his. "Well? Shall we go?"

Behind them, Ezio raised an eyebrow at her antics, observing the way she seemed to clutch at the other.

_Could she possibly be…?_

Claudia beamed up at the oblivious male beside her, smile almost sickeningly sweet.

…_This… may be troublesome._

~( ^_^ )~

_The little devil._

Ezio's eye twitched.

"Here you go, brother dear~," the (_far_ too happy) voice sang, _another_ box landing on top of the freaking _tower_ of packages in his arms.

Stepping back slightly with a grunt, the Florentine glared (attempted to, at least) at his _(–evil, devious, __witch__ of a–_) little sister from behind the heap. Claudia smiled sweetly in return, her (_wicked, wicked_) eyes twinkling.

"Hey, wouldn't it be better if I helped Ezio out too…?"

_Yes, yes, help Ezio out! Please do!_

"Oh, of course not, Desmond! There is no need for you to do something like this~!" the scheming female giggled, batting her eyelashes. "You're our guest, here."

He was seriously contemplating kicking his sister in the shins. Or maybe dropping everything… into a puddle of mud.

He valued his life though, so… maybe not.

Desmond's eyebrows knotted together. "But–."

"Don't worry!" Claudia waved her hand dismissively. "Ezio's fine. Right, brother?"

"Well, actually–."

"See? Perfectly alright. Now come along now," with that, she attached herself to the other's arm (_like a leech_), dragging him along. "I can't _wait_ to show you the Art Merchant's. Did you know that _I_ was the one that managed all the rebuilding here–?"

The elder Auditore was _this_ close to (_What was the phrase? Oh yes–_) cracking a shit.

_I mean, seriously?_

He could have handled being treated like a slave.

He could have handled listening to his sister's incessant chattering.

God, he could even have handled her throwing herself all over _his _Dezzy.

No, what Ezio Auditore da Firenze could _not_ handle, was the fact that he was spending the _entire_ day, _walking __behind__ Desmond_.

And he couldn't even ogle that ass.

~( ^_^ )~

"Phew."

Desmond hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, airing his neck as he walked along one of the many passageways of the _villa Auditore_. He had to admit, he was having a hard time adjusting to the climate.

Because, y'know, air conditioning hadn't been invented in that time. (Shocking, I know.)

The day hadn't been all too bad –for him, at least. Claudia was sweet and all that (_if a little clingy_), but her brother had looked positively _possessed_ by afternoon.

_Well, I would be too, in __that__ weather. _

Speaking of Ezio…

_Where the hell is he? Or Altair, for that matter. _

Peeking into an empty room, only to find it –well, _empty_– the American shrugged, moving aimlessly along the corridors. He was a tad bored.

Okay, maybe more than a _tad_.

"There's nothing to _do_," Desmond complained to himself, linking his fingers behind his head. He couldn't read – all the books were in Italian, it was too dark outside to do anything anymore, and going anywhere _near_ the ground floor was a bad idea.

Because the ground floor contained _Mario, _bringer of pain and suffering.

But it would be nice to have company that didn't either– deafen him with never-ending chatter, or (he shuddered) smile at him in a really creepy way and ask about _refrigerators_.

_So that leaves…_

He couldn't help but flinch at that.

_Do I really have to…?_

Desmond was (obviously) a bit hesitant about the idea. The two assassins weren't exactly the most _normal_ of people.

He stopped abruptly, eyes zoning in on the _fascinating _object to his side.

A moment passed in silence.

'_Hm, that's quite a nice flower…'_ the male cocked his head to the side as he stared down at the vase.

Then he face-palmed.

_I need someone to talk to. Now. _

Passing an intersection in the passage, his head turned to the right, towards the ladder signalling a certain Florentine's abode.

He contemplated. Then moved towards the bottom of the entrance.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he was _that_ bored.

Sighing, the American squared his shoulders, breathing deeply a few times, preparing himself. He had to be ready for anything.

The Italian could be rather… unpredictable… to put it nicely.

Ascending to the attic bedroom, Desmond glanced around, taking note of the familiar surroundings and… lack of Ezio.

_He must be somewhere else…_

He was torn between disappointment and relief.

_Oh well. I'll just have to wait._

The brunette walked around the study, eyes automatically flicking to the various paintings that were scattered throughout the area.

_Vieri… the Pazzi… Emilio Barbarigo…_

His fingers skimmed over the canvas of a very familiar red-hooded male.

_Silvio. And Dante, too. Then that means…_

He mentally ran through his knowledge of Ezio's timeline, coming to a conclusion.

_Ah, so he's waiting for the Apple from Cyprus. But… does he even know–?_

"You know, it's not good manners to enter someone else's private chambers unannounced."

Jolting in surprise, Desmond spun around, eyes wide (And no, he did not squeak. He had merely… expressed his surprise). And there stood the Florentine in the bedroom entrance, leaning casually against the door-frame…

…half-naked.

_Oh._

Ezio's long brown hair, normally tied back to the nape of his neck, was flat, water dripping from the locks framing his smirking face. "Hullo, Dezmond," he greeted, arms crossed.

As he spoke, a stray droplet trickled down the Italian's collarbone, missing the towel thrown around his shoulders and dribbling onto a well-defined chest, bringing attention to the strong abdomen that most men could only dream of obtaining. Then the liquid continued south, and Desmond's eyes did too…

The American felt his neck heat up.

Quickly averting his gaze to the side, he coughed awkwardly, moving over to a bookshelf and tugging out a random volume. "Uh, hi Ezio."

"So…," The rustling of the other's pants, followed by footsteps. "What brings you here?"

Brown eyes skimmed distractedly over the sentences scrawled within, Desmond chewing nervously on his bottom lip. "I… just wanted some company."

"…Company… Is that so…?"

"Er, yes." Why were his fingers so unwieldy all of a sudden?

The next reply came from much, _much_ closer. "Tell me, Desmond… can you read Italian?"

Desmond's eyebrows knotted. _What's with that question?_

"Y-yeah…," the male replied hesitantly. His shoulders hunched inwards instinctively at the sensation of the other's proximity.

"Then why, precisely, are you so intent on reading my private Journal?"

"_Your Journal?_" The brunette spun around almost instantly, eyes wide and mouth slightly open in alarm, the book hanging limply in his fingers.

Ezio stood directly in front of him, amusement twinkling in his chocolate-hued orbs. Laughing quietly, he took the book from Desmond's slacked grip, placing it softly back on the shelf behind his shoulder. "I am joking, Dezmond," he chuckled, seemingly entertained by the slight panic-attack that the other had been experiencing.

The American let out a sigh of relief, before his lips curled into an annoyed grimace. "Jeez, don't say stuff like that!" he reprimanded, glaring at the Florentine. "You nearly gave me a heart-attack."

…And then he noticed just how _god damn __close_ the other was.

"Your heart… was attacked?" The other had his head bent slightly to the side, smiling in an undecipherable way.

Desmond shifted uncomfortably, glancing to his sides. "Uh, not exactly…," he mumbled, cursing internally when he realised that the other's hand was still placed on the bookshelf, blocking off his left. "It's –uh– a sickness. Of the heart." His shoulders were tense, eyes refusing to make contact with the other's.

"Then…," for some unfathomable reason, Ezio shifted. _Closer._ Which, in Desmond's books, was _extremely_ bad. "…Are you ill?" he murmured, voice low and crumbly.

Now_ that_ was really not playing fair.

The cornered male felt his breath accelerate, the heat on his neck slowly creeping upwards.

_F-fuck._

"N-no I'm not," he replied shakily, trying to push himself back, only to find the bookshelf stopping his retreat. "It's just…"

His eyes widened as the other's face neared, eyelids hooded and lips curled into the _sexiest_ smirk ever to be seen on this earth.

"…a figure of…"

Unable to help himself, Desmond found himself staring at the Italian's lips, a light pink hue growing on his cheeks.

"…speech…" he whispered hoarsely, finding his throat mysteriously dry.

And wide brown orbs rose, meeting with the lidded gaze of the silent Florentine.

"I see…" the other mumbled, his left hand rising.

The trapped male's eyes followed the long, lightly calloused fingers as they moved towards his face, flinching slightly as they neared.

_This is bad. _

But his body refused to move.

The Italian's fingertips hovered over Desmond's cheek, mere centimetres from his skin.

Moulding himself to the bookcase, he took a deep, shuddering breath. "E-Ezio," he spoke lowly, attempting to put force into his warning.

The hand moved downwards, gliding across the skin of his tightened jaw.

The American swallowed deeply. "Stop this," he warned, frowning at the long-haired brunette.

"…Stop what…?" Ezio's eyes had swirled into a deep mocha, lids hooded as he shifted closer once more.

Desmond's hands were claws on the shelf at his waist.

_This…_

Ezio leaned forward, head bending to linger above the shivering male's collarbone.

And Desmond couldn't help it.

He couldn't help wanting to raise a hand and run his fingers through the other's long, brown hair.

He couldn't help feeling the _heat_ radiating off the other's bare skin, as if the layer of clothes between them was non-existent.

He couldn't help breathing deeply, inhaling the heavy musk that clouded his thoughts, that shattered his concentration, that made his body _sing_.

He couldn't help the warmth curling in his stomach, screaming at him to mould his body to the one in front of him.

He couldn't help it.

He was a moth that could not help but fly towards the candle-flame, even though it knew that it would be consumed by the very thing it searched for.

He was the moth that would be devoured by _fire_.

"D-don't…" he mumbled, voice a stuttering gasp.

The Florentine did not reply.

Breath ghosted over his neck, and Desmond shuddered, eyes fluttering closed.

_Oh Gods._

The other's face was drifting slowly upwards, even as his fingers trailed downwards, both so _close_.

There was never any contact.

Yet it was as if he was being touched in the most intimate way.

_The gentle lick of the flames… before the heat consumes all._

His shoulders hunched, and the male found himself leaning onto the shelves behind him for support, eyes closed as he shivered under the Florentine's chiselled body.

"Please Ezio…," he wasn't really sure what he was begging for anymore.

The warmth radiating off the other's lips traced a scorching path up along his neck, Desmond's mouth falling open ever-so-slightly as his breaths became laboured.

_Touch me._

Ezio's fingertips hovered over his collarbone, so _close_… yet so far.

_Touch me._

His legs weakened, and Desmond could feel himself beginning to slide down, arms trembling as he fought to hold himself up.

_**Touch me.**_

The other's mouth was over his ear now, and it felt as if the Florentine's breath was almost _burning_ his skin.

_**Touch me.**_

"_Desmond…"_

His knees buckled.

That voice, steeped in the most sinful of emotions, was his undoing.

"Ezio, I– ," he began to gasp.

And then the other's warmth was gone, leaving him grasping the bookshelf in a death-grip.

_What?_

Ezio had stepped back, arms retracted, smirk curling his lips. Then he cocked his head to the side.

"No touching, right, _Desmond_?"

He turned, sauntering back into his bedroom with a chuckle.

…Leaving the other wide-eyed and confused, sliding down to the floor, a hand over his mouth.

_How…? What…? _

~( ^_^ )~

Claudia gripped the beams of the ladder shakily, mouth also covered by her palm as she sat where she had collapsed, at the bottom of the attic entrance.

_M-mio Dio…_

Her blush deepened.

**And thus, the first yaoi-fangirl in history was born. **

**Naturally, it would have had to be an Auditore, because everything weird and strange (and awesome) seems to come from that family.**

**Are you appeased? *creepy smile + _really_ creepy eyebrows***

**I am now off to play AC Revelations (Ezio is the sexiest 60 year old man in the world)~.**

**Review, if you would, please. ^-^**


	5. Chapter 5: Not a Happy Chappie

**Hullo~. I'm going to give up apologizing for lateness, 'coz it happens every time...**

**So yeah, something new happening in this one. ^-^ *heeheehee***

**Read and Review, pwease~.**

"_Buon Giorno_, Uncle!"A certain Italian assassin sauntered into the Auditore kitchen, waving to his seated _Zio_.

Said relative looked up from his breakfast, eyebrow raised as he took in his nephew's chirpy disposition.

Glancing out the window at the morning sun, which hovered just above the horizon, Mario's eyebrow rose a little more.

He looked at Ezio.

Out the window.

Back at Ezio.

The window.

Ezio.

At this point, the elder Auditore had gained an exceedingly expressive 'WTF?' face. The other only smiled idiotically for a little longer, rocking to and fro on the balls of his feet.

"…Ezio…," Mario placed his piece of bread down carefully onto his plate. "You realize that it _is_ morning, right?"

Humming a confirmation, he turned to the pantry, the Florentine beginning to sort through the various ingredients.

"…_Early_ in the morning," his uncle stressed, cautious as he observed a nonchalant Ezio. "_Very_ early."

"Yes, we've already confirmed that," the Italian rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "What about it?"

Mario stared for a little longer. "Ezio… the last time I got a maid to wake you up at a time like this, she _barely_ escaped having your _throwing knife_ in her _skull_."

The young Auditore shrugged. "Hey, I told her I was sorry, didn't I?" he smirked. "…Anyway, after a few of my _unique_ 'expressions of remorse'… she was _more_ than happy to forgive me."

His uncle shook his head, unable to help smiling wryly. "Yes, there were a fair few more of those 'expressions' than I would have liked…"

"What can I say? I'm thorough."

"Yes, yes, but that's not the point," Mario shot his nephew a disbelieving look. "My question is, how the hell are you even _awake_ at this time?"

Ezio scratched the back of his head. "Dunno," he shrugged, before wrapping up the parcel that was his breakfast, slipping it under his arm as he turned to leave the room. "Well, got to go, _Zio_ – places to go, things to do… asses to grope…"

With that, the legendary, agile, ruthless, deadly assassin –who had the ability to make guards run screaming for their lives– skipped (yes, _skipped_) away.

And the elder Auditore sat there, food completely forgotten.

He pinched himself.

…Just to be sure.

~( ^_^ )~

"Here."

"Huh? Oh – thanks, Altair."

Desmond took a swig from the offered water-skin, before returning to his former hunched over position on the bench. Sweat continued to pour down his face, his breath coming out in harsh gusts.

_That__ was Altair's idea of an early-morning jog? _

He could already feel the couch-potato part of him shrivelling up and dying.

…Painfully.

Shaking his head, the assassin-in-training rose to a normal sitting position, head tossed back as he exhaled loudly.

His 'mentor' looked towards him, eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly (his disbelieving face).

"You cannot possibly be tired alr–."

"Don't." Altair was silenced with a finger to his lips. Desmond glared up at him, his scowl a thin line. "…Don't."

The Syrian's eyebrow rose a millimetre higher (his shocked face). "What are–."

The novice made a tutting sound… which shouldn't have sounded menacing, but somehow Desmond managed. "Don't."

Gold eyes searched his own, Altair's gaze shadowed from beneath his hood. And then a gloved hand rose, agile fingers wrapping around Desmond's wrist.

The American froze at the contact, blinking.

Slowly, the assassin pulled away his hand, Desmond doing nothing as he watched on in silence. Their eyes never broke contact, not even as the other leaned forward, his face inches from Desmond's.

"Don't _what_?"

All the breath in his lungs seemed to freeze at that moment, the brunette still unable to move as –.

"Hullo, you two!"

And suddenly he could move again – very, very quickly. This was proven as Desmond all but shot off the bench, hand wrenched out of Altair's grip before you could say 'Ezio'.

He said it anyway, though. "Ezio!"

There stood the Italian in all his (big-headed) glory, grinning widely at the pair. Turning to the still-jittery American, he opened his arms…

…And pulled the other into a hug…

Altair's eyes widened ever-so-slightly (his 'OMG-what-the-fuck' Face).

…Before planting a big, wet smooch on Desmond's cheek.

The assassin-in-training's face was immediately engulfed in red, mouth falling open slightly.

"How are you today, _Dezmond_?"

It was as if a tomato had replaced the male's head (luckily, that wasn't actually the case, as tomatoes, as delicious as they are, would not, aesthetically, have been a suitable replacement).

And suddenly, the American was gone.

Both assassins looked on, one in amusement and one in surprise as the novice reached the Villa in record time, all but leaving a hurricane of dust behind him in his haste.

There was silence.

Then Altair's eyes narrowed.

And _no_, he was _not_ pouting petulantly.

…Much.

~( ^_^ )~

If there was one thing that Altair did not like, it was Not Knowing.

And there had been a lot of Not Knowing occurring lately.

He did Not Know why Ezio was strutting about like an over-fluffed turkey.

He did Not Know why said Italian's little sister squealed and ran away every time she set eyes on either of the two novices.

He did Not Know why the mercenaries were so Allah-damn loud and the whores so… whorey.

He did Not Know the meaning of Life, and of the Universe…but that was a different matter.

Most importantly, though, He did Not Know why Desmond refused to even be within the same _vicinity_ as a certain annoying Florentine.

Yes, there were a lot of Not Knows there.

And thus, Altair was most definitely not a Happy Chappie.

…Not that he wanted to be one anyway – it sounded absurd.

_Thud. _The muffled sound reached the Syrian's ever-alert ears, the assassin looking towards the thick wooden door closest to him. _"Fuck!"_

Curiosity… and boredom… overtook his sense of privacy, Altair opening the door and entering the high-ceilinged study that the Strange Old Italian man seemed to love so dearly.

Well, that was handy.

His biggest Not Know was right in front of him, hefting a mammoth of a novel onto the wooden table that took up the centre of the room.

"Dezmund."

"Hurk!" The other male made a sound halfway between a frog and a cat coughing up fur-balls (not that frogs coughed up fur-balls).

_Thud._

"God-Fucking-Dammit!"

Throwing his hands up in the air, the American gave up, turning instead to Altair. "Did you _have_ to do that?"

"…Do what?"

"Sneak up on me like that!" Desmond growled, placing his hands on his hips (it's an _extremely_ manly thing to do). "God, you're like a cat!"

Altair blinked.

_No, __you__ are…_

But he refrained from voicing this, for various reasons:

It would be bad for his rep.

Using that as a comeback would make him seem unoriginal.

Assassins do _not_ think of kitty cats… Much.

Desmond could be a tad frightening when annoyed.

Instead, he settled for the _much _more inventive retort of, "…I'm not a cat…"

This only seemed to make the other more frustrated, though.

~( ^_^ )~

Shaking his head, the novice made another attempt at picking up the dropped book (it was _ginormous_ – think of Claudia's mammoth 'Book of Amazingness' and then think _larger_), grunting as he hauled it over to a bookshelf.

"What did you want anyway, Altair?" he sighed, shoving it onto the shelf with a huff.

The Syrian was silent.

Desmond rolled his eyes, throwing his head back in irritation. "Seriously, if you don't want anything, could you _please_ get out?" he groaned, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not in the mood for this, and– ."

"Why are you evading him?"

The novice tensed. "…Evading who…?"

Altair's eyes narrowed. "You know who I speak of, _Dezmund_."

"Well, even if I _did_ know," the American said, looking to the side. "Why should I tell you?"

The Master Assassin crossed his arms in the menacing stance that he utilised so often. "There is no 'why', only 'will' in this conversation." His voice was low, shards of ice embedded in his words.

The other flinched for a moment, before his own brown orbs met the burning honey of Altair, glaring back just as heatedly. "_'Will…?'_"

The Syrian's gaze was sharp. "Yes, or is your hearing now impaired?"

"You…" The change in the novice's temperament was almost audible. Heat bursting forth, his eyebrows furrowed in rage, Desmond snarled, "Who the _fuck_ do you think you are, ordering me around like– ."

The other was on him before he could even blink, a hand fisting his shirt as he was shoved back onto the bookcase. Pain shot through his back and neck, a grunt leaving his lips as he all but bounced off the shelves.

"Who am _I_…?" the assassin was far too dangerous, far too close, and _far too angry_.

"Urgh…" Desmond scrabbled at the other's wrist, trying to ease the pressure on his collar.

Altair's dark-gold eyes were burning _holes_ in his head. "For your information, _Dezmund_, I am your senior, your teacher, your _superior_."

"No you're fucking _not_."

"Well, I do not see _you_ pinning me to furniture," was the replied hiss.

But the trapped male refused to relent, also incensed. Jaw tight, he settled for gripping at the tight hold on his neck, brown eyes burning with stubborn intent. "Fuck you."

And then Desmond could barely breathe, an elbow digging painfully into his diaphragm as he was pushed even further up the bookcase. "_What_ did you just say?"

"Maybe–," he gasped, sucking in an excruciating breath as he attempted to speak. The male struggled to take in air through his mouth, feet already dangling off the ground from the anger-fuelled strength of the other. "Maybe _you're_ the one with the hearing problem, huh, Altair?" he grinned audaciously down at the assassin, sweat beginning to form on his forehead.

An animalistic snarl, and a strange sense of vertigo, before white spots were dancing across his eyes, pain piercing the back of his head. "Agh…," he groaned, his head spinning, and _hurting_.

Then, looking upwards from his new position on the hard, tiled floor, he witnessed one of the most terrifying scenes of his young life. The other straddled him, powerful thighs trapping the novice's own as a firm palm was placed on his chest. That, he could deal with.

The expression on the other's face, he could not.

Altair… was _livid_.

There was really no other word for it. And as he gazed into dark gold eyes that swirled with rage, Desmond felt his blood freeze.

_Bad._

A _shunk_ as the assassin's hidden blade was released, and the young American suddenly realised just how deep shit just got.

_Very bad._

The other's face was now of a frightening enraged neutrality, Altair gazing at the blade in his palm, face expressing none of the anger that swam in his eyes. "Hm."

And then the other's stare was on him.

_Oh God._

The hand on his chest pressed downwards, the sharp blade moving nearer, inch by inch. The Syrian's movements were painfully slow; mocking his inability to force himself free. By all technicalities, his arms were free, but there was no way in _hell_ he was moving.

"Now tell me… Dezmund…," Altair murmured, weapon scraping lightly over the skin of his face. The American sucked in a breath, holding it carefully as he watched the glint of the metal from the corner of his eye. "What was your answer to my question again…?"

"Uh…" He swallowed nervously.

The assassin traced patterns along his jaw, edge digging in a hair's breadth deeper.

Desmond's mind scrambled for options.

…Not that there were all that many. At this stage, the truth wasn't exactly negotiable.

_The… truth…_

Desmond shifted uncomfortably, eyes refusing to meet his. "Ezio, um…," he murmured, head turning to the side. "He…"

"Speak properly, Novice," the Syrian snapped.

"Ezio…," the male was struggling to get his words out, seemingly caught between embarrassment and fear. "…May have done some _things_…"

And then, in this god-forsaken situation, his cheeks had the audacity to _blush_.

Within a second, everything froze.

Altair's honey eyes were suddenly wide, in an expression as close to un-hindered shock he had ever seen the other wear.

_Did he… did he guess…?_

The Syrian was a statue – unmoving, unspeaking, un_breathing_.

A shiver ran down Desmond's spine, as his ears rang with the utter _silence_ that filled the cavernous room. The other's expression was impenetrable, and he could do nothing but wait in apprehension.

The rasp of the hidden blade returning to its sheathe.

And then the world was turned inside out.

Lips were on his, rough, demanding, _domineering_, attacking his mouth relentlessly. His head was pushed further into the floor, Desmond's mind spinning in absolute confusion.

Grasping onto the frayed edges of his swirling thoughts, he attempted to tie them back together into a semblance of _some_ sense. His hands, previously unmoving, rose to grip Altair's shoulders, pushing firmly.

Their lips separated, Desmond taking in a gasping breath. "What the hell are you– ?"

But the other would not allow that. His hands were seized by another pair, shoved onto the tiles – he instinctively struggled, hips bucking and trapped hands tugging as he protested.

"Altair, stop!"

Darkened honey eyes narrowed, the male holding him captive growling – a low, guttural sound that made his stomach curl and body shiver.

_What is going __on__…?_

His arms were released, powerful fingers gripping his jaw instead, forcing his mouth open. And the sounds of protest that left him were immediately silenced as the other sealed his firm lips onto his own.

"Unh…"

A slippery tongue slid itself into his orifice, tangling with his own and sending heat coursing through his system. The appendage curled itself around Desmond's, who could do nothing more but groan as the other moved on to explore the walls of his mouth.

_F-fuck._

A languid swipe of the other's tongue on the roof of his mouth, and their lips separated, Desmond taking in a gasping breath.

"A-Altair?"

The Syrian did not reply.

And then fingers were suddenly under the cloth of his tunic, the assassin-in-training letting out a sound of surprise as calloused digits caressed his abdomen. "H-hey!" The hand moved further upwards, revealing his bronzed skin. "Sto– !"

He was cut off as two fingers were placed in his mouth, moving past his teeth and tangling with his tongue. "Ngh!" Brown eyes widened at the intrusion.

But this was quickly forgotten as a dexterous hand finally found its prize, tugging sharply at the nubs on his chest.

Desmond gasped.

_Wha– ? _

A shock of electricity ran through him as his nipple was pinched again, his mouth falling open as a small cry left his lips, muffled by the other's fingers.

_What… was that?_

Another tug, followed by the rolling of the nub between digits, and a small moan was emitted, cheeks beginning to flush.

Then he knew what the sensation was.

_Pleasure._

~( ^_^ )~

Altair was not quite sure what he was doing.

_Control…_

He had lost such a thing the moment he had pinned the other beneath him.

_Anger…_

And he had further lost his grasp on reality as soon as that hesitant blush had appeared, coupled by that _abhorrent_ name.

_Need…_

As of now, he no longer had any semblance of power over himself.

…And nor did he want any.

Eyes riveted on the face of the other, the Syrian tugged again at the delectable little nub that seemed to produce such delicious sounds from the male beneath him. And Desmond moaned.

He _moaned_.

_Allah._

And Altair struggled to keep his own groan in, feeling his arousal grow as vibrations caressed the fingers within the other's mouth.

Oh the _things_ that tongue did to him, even when not trying…

_The things that tongue __could__ do…_

Biting back a moan at the thought, he lowered his neck to attack the smooth tan skin of the male's neck, nipping ruthlessly even as his tongue swiped over the surface.

Desmond tasted _amazing_.

And he could not help but bite harder, earning a groan from his prey, who bent his head backwards, baring the scrumptious expanse to his hungry lips.

How he wanted to just strip the other of his clothing, and feel the sensation of skin against skin as–

"Eeep!"

Gold eyes darted to the side, meeting the startled, doe-like orbs of the teenage Auditore girl.

He blinked, detaching his mouth from Desmond's neck.

At his stare, the girl burst into action, a heavy blush colouring her cheeks as she began to wave her hands. "I-I'm sorry!" she squealed, before turning and dashing out of the room.

A moment passed.

And then the Syrian realised what the _hell_ he had just been doing.

Jumping up onto his feet, Altair leapt away as if he had been burnt, backing up as he gazed upon the blushing, wet-lipped mess that was the other.

Desmond's head craned up to look at him in return, brown eyes still slightly dazed.

"I… I am sorry."

And he strode out of the room as quickly as his legs could take him.

**Am I moving it too fast? Do I need to build relationships? Do I need to add more drama? Do I... Do I...**

**Gyaaaaaahhhhh~! I don'****t know what I'm doing!**

**I can never tell when I write... sometimes it feels slow, sometimes it feels fast... ARGH. Why do other people's stories feel so perfectly paced, and mine feels like crap?**

***Frustration* **

**But yes, please do review. ^_^**


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